


aucune seconde de ma vie

by kitseybarbours



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, M/M, Prostitution, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-15 20:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5798806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitseybarbours/pseuds/kitseybarbours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December, 1832: Grantaire is a poor artist looking for a muse. He finds one in Enjolras, a prostitute with a tragic past and a terrible secret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*

December, 1832. The young painter leaves his apartment late and goes up to Montmartre. Snow whirls and lands in his thick dark curls; he shivers, his coat is worn through. He’s beginning to lose hope of finding what he’s looking for. But if he finds it tonight, none of this will have been in vain. He will make art again. _Soon._

Pigalle: the _maisons closes_ are busy tonight, despite the cold. The men of Paris do not mind the weather. The painter passes them all by. He goes further, up the butte, through the steep and winding streets. There — there they are in the alleys, leaning against the walls: girls in shabby dresses making eyes at him. And there too the young men, lean and hard-eyed; they lick their lips and call out to the painter, girls and boys alike. He ducks his head against the wind and searches, searches.

No luck here. Nor the next street, or the next. It is growing colder. The painter is becoming discouraged; he would like a drink. He hasn’t been back to his favourite tavern since the brawl. The bruises are faded now, but perhaps the proprietress will still take pity and offer him some absinthe. _Yes, yes, go, it’s just around the corner…_ He is about to give up completely when he finds him.

The boy stands half-hidden in shadow under an overhanging roof on the opposite side of the street. He is alone, not in a pack like the others, and this is what draws the painter’s eye to him, at first. But almost as soon as he notices his presence, he sees too his beauty.

His hair hangs in messy curls of tarnished gold. His skin is flushed with the cold, but smooth, unblemished; his lips are plush and pink and almost girlish. He is thin, and shivering. The painter knows instantly that it is him he has been searching for. He crosses the street.

The boy does not see him approach; he startles when the painter lays a hand on his arm. Up close, the painter realises the boy is older than he’d originally thought: probably in his early twenties, closer to the painter’s own age – but his looks are more like those of a seventeen-year-old girl.

 _“Excusez-moi,”_ the painter apologises, seeing the fright in his eyes. _“Je ne voulais pas vous épeurer.”_

 _“Ça va,”_ the boy says cautiously; and then in an instant, all traces of fear are replaced with careful bravado. _“Que peux-je vous offrir, monsieur?”_ He slouches prettily against the wall, his eyes travelling up and down the painter’s body. His voice is smooth as honey.

 _“Ce n’est pas ce que vous pensez,”_ the painter explains apologetically. He sees the interest fizzle out of the boy’s eyes, and hastens to add _“Mais je peux vous payer quand même.”_

 _“Ah oui? Combien? Et pour faire quoi, exactement?”_ The boy’s voice is sharp now, businesslike. He levels the painter with a hard direct gaze, and the painter marvels at the brilliant blue of his eyes.

“I want to paint you.”

“Paint me?”

The painter nods vigorously. “ _Oui.”_ The boy’s eyes are still sceptical, and he hurries to explain. “I am an artist. I paint for a living. But lately — my muse has left me. I have not been able to paint a thing. All this time I have been searching, searching for someone who will inspire me to make art again.” He pauses. “You. It is you. I know it.”

His voice is fevered, urgent, and he reminds himself to calm down, not to frighten the boy. But the boy does not look afraid; no, far from it — he looks intrigued.

“I will be your muse,” he repeats: a statement and a question in one.

The painter nods again.

“You will paint me, and I will be paid?”

“Yes. Yes. I do not have much, but I will give you what I can.”

“And all I will have to do is — sit for you. Pose.”

“Yes. _C’est tout._ I promise.” The painter waits, anxious, hoping beyond hope that the boy — his muse — does not slip away, now that he has found him.

The boy considers for a moment; he stares up at the night sky as if his answer is written in the stars.

And maybe it is, for after another minute he turns back to the painter and says, “All right. _Oui._ I will do it; I will be your…muse.”

The painter is so grateful, so relieved, that for a second he forgets to reply. A grin splits his face nearly in two, and impulsively he takes up the boy’s hand and presses it: “Thank you, thank you!”

The boy raises his eyebrows and withdraws his hand from the painter’s grasp. “When can I start?”

The painter looks earnestly at him. “Ah — tomorrow? Ten o’clock?”

The boy nods. “All right. Where do I find you?”

The painter takes a scrap of paper from his coat and writes down his address: a tiny second-floor flat in the Quartier Porte-Saint-Denis. He hands it to the boy, who tucks it into his threadbare shirt-cuff.

“And who do I ask for, tomorrow morning at ten o’clock?” the boy asks.

“My name is Grantaire,” says the painter.

“Grantaire,” the boy repeats. He nods. “I am Enjolras.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire repeats in turn, turning the unfamiliar syllables around on his tongue. “I am ever grateful to you, Enjolras. You do not know how much this means to me.” He smiles again.

“You have not painted me yet,” Enjolras observes. His pretty lips quirk up in a smirk. “Best not thank me until later.”

Grantaire laughs. “I suppose not.”

A gust of chill wind blows through the allée; Enjolras shivers. Impulsively, Grantaire takes off his coat (which is barely less threadbare than the boy’s worn-out shirt) and drapes it around his thin shoulders.

“You need this more than I.”

“You are going all the way back to Saint-Denis — do you not need —?”  Enjolras frowns up at him, hesitant, but pulls the coat tighter around himself even so.

“I have a warm bed awaiting me,” Grantaire says softly.

At this, Enjolras frowns and turns his face away. Grantaire is not sure, but he thinks he hears him mutter something like “I could, too.”

 _“A demain,_ Enjolras,” Grantaire says gently, sensing that the conversation is over.

As he turns to go he hears the reply, soft, carried to him on the wind: _“A demain.”_

*

The next morning ten o’clock comes, and then quarter after, and then it is ten-thirty and Grantaire begins to despair. _He is not coming. It was all a dream. My muse — surely I invented him — I will find someone else, I have no other choice._

He takes another gulp of last night’s stale wine. The bottle, his last one, is nearly empty. He stares blankly at it; _what will I do when I have finished it?_ Beg, borrow or steal another, he knows is the answer. _Unless he comes. Unless I paint him. Unless it sells, and quickly. Unless, unless, unless._

And then a rap at the door, hesitant and then more forceful. Grantaire practically springs from his chair, nearly knocking over the last of the wine. He steadies the bottle and himself and goes to answer, his heart thudding.

He opens the door. The boy — Enjolras — stands on the threshold, his golden hair glinting in the cold morning light. There is a bruise on his cheekbone that Grantaire had not seen the night before. He has to stop himself from reaching out to touch it, to try and blur the imperfection out as if it were a smudge of lead on paper.

“You came,” he says in a rush. He opens the door wider and Enjolras steps inside. He carries Grantaire’s coat over his arm.

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, wary. “I apologise for the delay.” He gestures to the bruise on his cheek, and Grantaire realises that perhaps it wasn’t that he hadn’t _seen_ it the night before, but rather that it hadn’t been there at all. “A dispute with a client.”

Grantaire is unsure what to say. Wordlessly, Enjolras hands him the coat, which Grantaire goes to hang up. Enjolras steps past him and surveys the cramped apartment: the little round table covered in half-finished sketches; the grimy stove, in which a small wood fire burns; the two moth-eaten chintz chairs which serve as parlour furnishings. An easel with a blank canvas on it faces the window, which looks out onto the dirty narrow street below. The window-seat, covered in faded yellow-striped silk, is the nicest part of the apartment: it is spotlessly clean and looks thoroughly out-of-place.

Grantaire follows Enjolras’ gaze to this last, and when he turns around with a question in his eyes Grantaire is already telling him the answer.

“I like to paint my models by the window,” he explains. “The lighting is best there.”

Enjolras nods, tight-lipped. Absurdly, Grantaire waits for some judgment, but none comes.

“Shall we begin?” Enjolras asks briskly.

Grantaire, taken aback, says, “Oh! — yes. Let me…” He turns to the table to find his sketch-pad and a stick of charcoal, and when he turns back, he finds Enjolras unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you —?” Grantaire asks, flustered.

Enjolras raises his eyebrows and pauses mid-button. “I assumed I would be modelling nude,” he says coolly. He gestures to the sketches on the table: indeed, most are nudes.

“Yes — er, you will — but today I was hoping to begin by drawing your face,” Grantaire explains, bashful. “I thought that might be more comfortable for you — for the first time.”

Enjolras shrugs, nonplussed, and begins to re-button his shirt. Grantaire watches his hands — elegant, almost feminine — move to close the ragged cloth over a triangle of smooth fair skin, lightly dusted with fine golden hair; and then the shirt is buttoned up again and it is gone.

“Where do you want me?” Enjolras asks.

Grantaire thinks for a moment, and then drags one of the chintz chairs closer to the window. He drags the other one to face it, and motions for Enjolras to sit down in the one with its back to the light. “There, please,” he requests.

Enjolras sits. Bringing his sketch-pad and charcoal _(running out of that, too),_ Grantaire follows him, and sits opposite.

“How shall I pose?” asks Enjolras.

Grantaire leans back in his chair and studies his model. The light from outside is wintry-cool, and it turns Enjolras’ beautiful face into something like a marble statue: the light seems, in fact, to radiate from Enjolras himself. The dark bruise on his face is hidden by shadow; he looks whole, perfect, but not quite _pure —_  his eyes are too fiery for that. Grantaire marvels at him, at the hard set of his full lips, the burnished curl of his hair. He sees a warrior prince, a faerie, a god — and he knows, at once, how he will paint him, when the time comes. _Phoebus Apollo._

For now, though: “Thinking,” Grantaire tells him. “Daydreaming. I want you to look out the window, put your hand to your face — yes, like that, just there — good, yes, exactly.”

 Enjolras turns his head to look out at the street, raises one graceful hand to cup his chin negligently; the shadows move on his face and the bruise is once again exposed. Sunlight dances in his hair. Grantaire picks up his pad.

“This is all right?” Enjolras asks, still posed.

“Yes. Yes. Don’t move — pretend I am not even here. Lose yourself in your thoughts and let me do the work,” Grantaire says, smiling, and he begins to sketch.

*

Half an hour later Grantaire looks up and says, “All right.”

Enjolras relaxes instantly. “May I see?” is his immediate question. Despite having held his pose perfectly, with barely a blink, for all this time, he stands gracefully and moves without stiffness to peer over Grantaire’s shoulder at the drawing.

Grantaire angles it so that he can see, and looks down at it himself. He’s proud of it, more than he had expected to be; it’s some of the best work he’s done in months, and it’s only a rough sketch.

“Oh,” breathes Enjolras from beside him. “Do I — is that really what I —?”

Grantaire studies the drawing again, trying to see it as Enjolras does. The sharp planes of his profile, the arch of his neck and the delicate lines of his nose — these are what Grantaire as an artist sees, but not what Enjolras must notice himself. As Grantaire watches, Enjolras, as if in a trance, lifts a hand to the bruise on his cheek. He is still staring down at the drawing.

“You left it out,” he murmurs.

“Not on purpose,” Grantaire lies. “The light was hitting it in such a way that I could not see it at all.”

Enjolras looks at him now, and the dreaminess is gone from his voice, replaced with something more serious.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, as if he had not heard.

And then in an instant he is once again the hard-eyed boy of the night before, and not this gentle creature of light.

“What next?” he asks, all business. “Will you paint it?”

Grantaire considers, looking down at the drawing. “Yes, I think I will. I will need to transfer it onto the canvas first, and that will take some time.” He looks to the clock on the kitchen table. “You must be hungry by now. Give me a moment,” he says, struck with an idea. Enjolras nods, and Grantaire disappears round the corner into his bedroom.

He returns clutching a small handful of coins (scrounged up from under the loose floorboard beneath his bed, where he stows his liquor and snuff-box in case Catherine the landlady comes inspecting, and his spare change whenever he has some) _._ He hands the money to Enjolras:

“Here you are.” He smiles. “We will have a little celebration,” he says, “in honour of you, Enjolras — my muse.” He raises an imaginary glass in a toast and is rewarded with a little smile from Enjolras.

“There is a _boulangerie_ a few doors down — you must have passed it on your way here? If you wouldn’t mind going and fetching us something, I can transfer the drawing while you are gone and I will paint after we eat,” Grantaire requests.

Enjolras nods. “All right.” He puts his worn-out boots back on and pauses for a second at the door: through the window Grantaire sees that it has started to snow, and he doesn’t think he imagines the shiver that runs through Enjolras’ body.

In a second he has produced his coat and handed it once more to Enjolras. Grantaire meets his eyes and smiles tentatively; but to his surprise, although he takes the coat and shrugs it on, Enjolras looks away, and the corners of his mouth turn down sharply. “ _Merci,”_ he says, but his voice is harsh.

He goes. The door slams behind him, and Grantaire is left bewildered. He is beginning to see that his new model is a volatile, vulnerable creature: the slightest trace of…pity seems to set him off, and yet — the bruise —  _he thanked me for not painting it._

For the first time, Grantaire wonders how Enjolras came to be on that street-corner in Montmartre. Was he born on the streets, like the little urchin in the Elephant, Gavroche? Or did something happen in his youth — a family in need, casting him out in anger or desperation? Or — strangest thought of all, but not entirely improbable — was he there by choice: a pretty youth who knew his looks could keep him fed?

Grantaire cannot begin to answer any of these questions. But he hopes that with time, he will learn their answers. _I hope he grows to trust me,_ he thinks suddenly. _I hope I come to know him._

Enjolras is so different from any of his other models: those are usually girls from the tavern whom he charms into sitting for him, with a wink and a grin and a mouthful of pretty words that he doesn’t really mean. The girls are always thrilled to see their likenesses in ink, and if Grantaire’s lucky they will pay for him to paint them.

A few hours here and there, another few paintings to pay the next month’s rent; but not the art he wants to make. Nothing like this sketch of Enjolras — Grantaire picks it up again and marvels at it anew. A rough draft only, and some of his best work! He knows already that once he paints it — and paints Enjolras again — it will be the best work he ever does.

_If he comes back._

For it’s been close to twenty minutes now since Enjolras left. The bakery is very near, and Grantaire begins to fret. _What if he took the money and left?_ It wasn’t very much, but Grantaire knows with full certainty that if he was in Enjolras’ place it’s what he would have done. But he decides not to worry himself: _if he comes back, he comes back. For now, I have work to do._

He rubs the back of the sketch with a graphite block, lays it atop the blank canvas, and then carefully traces over the lines of the image to transfer it. He has barely finished the background and is so absorbed in his work that he hardly notices when the door creaks open and a voice says, “Grantaire?”

Grantaire looks up abruptly and sees (to his admitted relief) Enjolras. How strange it is, to have just been drawing him and now to see him here, in the flesh —  _it is as if I created that nose, the eyes, the lips, and they have been brought to life in front of me._ He mentally traces the lines of Enjolras’ face as he has just traced them with his pencil, and he smiles.

“You came back,” he says.

“Yes,” says Enjolras, and that is that.

Enjolras sets down a baguette, wrapped in paper, on the little round table. He takes off Grantaire’s coat and rummages in the pocket; to Grantaire’s surprise, he holds out a fistful of change.

“Here you go. There was a little left over.”

Grantaire looks up at him in gratitude. “Thank you!” He counts it quickly in his head: oh, joy of joys, there is just enough for another bottle of wine —  _not_ good _wine, mind you, but wine all the same._

Enjolras picks up the baguette and comes to sit in the chintz chair. He breaks off a chunk, offers it to Grantaire and asks, “How comes the drawing?”

Grantaire takes a bite of bread and angles the canvas so Enjolras can see. “I’ve barely started. It’ll be another while yet.”

“I’ll wait.”

Enjolras takes a piece of bread as well. He eats delicately, but with a ravenousness he cannot hide; his eyes are wilder now, even more than before. Grantaire wonders when was the last time he ate a square meal —  _as if I have been living that much better than he._

Finished eating, Grantaire takes up his pencil again; he begins to transfer Enjolras’ outline, and then the details of his face, his hair. He bends intently over his work and Enjolras watches him just as closely: Grantaire can feel his gaze, focused and intense, and thinks _And so the painter becomes the subject._

Some time later — ten minutes, half an hour — “It is finished.”

Grantaire looks up: Enjolras is still looking at him with curiosity in his eyes. _What is it he wants to see?_

“You will paint it now?” Enjolras asks.

“Yes, I will,” Grantaire replies, surveying the transferred drawing. “If you have — somewhere to be,” he says, suddenly realising that he might be keeping the boy from —  _business,_ “you can go,” he tells him in a rush. “I can make a colour-chart very quickly, and paint from that — it’s no trouble —”

“I have nowhere to be,” Enjolras dismisses. He looks at the clock. “Not yet, anyway. Or at all. If you — want me here.”

_If you want me._

“All right,” Grantaire blurts out. “Stay.”

Enjolras looks curiously at him for a long moment. And then the smallest of smiles breaks across his face.

“I will.”

*

So for the rest of the afternoon, Enjolras sits and Grantaire paints him. The changing light throughout the day affects the painting a little: at one point, the shadows cover up the bruise again, and Grantaire is glad of the excuse not to paint it; _now I am not lying to him._ He mixes browns and ochres to capture the gold of Enjolras’ hair; the softest of purples under gentle peach gives his skin its haunted glow. Grantaire paints, and he paints, and he paints; and Enjolras sits marble-still in his chair, staring out at nothing, thinking thoughts that Grantaire can only wish to divine.

They take a break. Grantaire fetches water for the both of them, wishing it was wine, and Enjolras stretches his limbs.

“You’re very good at being still,” Grantaire tells him. “And you are a joy to paint. The beautiful things, they are always the best — they flow from life onto the canvas. I merely hold the paintbrush.” He smiles.

Enjolras scoffs. “ _Beautiful._ I am paid to look pretty.” His voice is flat but his eyes still hold fire. “Is that not why you — chose me?”

Grantaire pauses before replying, struck, and unsure what to say.

He begins carefully: “Yes. Yes, I saw at once that you were — beautiful.” He thinks, and then goes on. “But it was more than just that. It was — in your eyes, a fire — that is what I have been missing.”

He looks at Enjolras, cautious, waiting for him to interject angrily, or storm out, or retreat behind the façade again. But he does none of this; he just listens. So Grantaire goes on.

“As soon as I saw you I knew it was you. I knew I needed you,” he says. “I don’t know how I knew it. But I did. I needed you — it had to be you.”

Something crosses Enjolras’ face that makes Grantaire stop there. He looks back on his words and realises for the first time how they could sound; he wonders how many times Enjolras has heard such fervent pleas and declarations from other men in alleyways, and how many times they have hurt him. He says no more.

Enjolras is silent for a moment longer. He looks away from Grantaire, and then back at him.

“Shall we go on?” he asks lightly. The hardness is back in his eyes; he has retreated once more.

Grantaire swallows. He wishes desperately for a drink.

He picks up his paintbrush and swirls it in turpentine, wiping it on his smock. He takes a deep breath and faces the canvas again.

“Yes.”

*

It is dusk by the time the painting is finished. They gaze at it together, the two of them, in the golden light of the sunset. They say nothing for a very long time, content only to drink it in.

“It’s lovely,” Enjolras murmurs finally. He lifts a finger and brings it almost, almost to touch the still-wet paint, stopping just short of the canvas.

He turns to Grantaire. “You are — incredible. This, it — it is incredible,” he says quietly.

“As I said,” Grantaire shrugs: “The beautiful things, it is not I who makes them so.”

“Hmm.” Enjolras looks away again, back to his likeness on the canvas.

Instead of looking at the painting, Grantaire studies the subject: the rapturous look in his brilliant eyes as he stares at his portrait; the way the last rays of sunlight catch in his curls and give him a soft and shining halo.   _Beautiful,_ he thinks.

“You are free to go now,” Grantaire says gently, unwillingly.

Enjolras looks to him again. “That is all?”

“For today.” Grantaire lets the unspoken question hang in the air.

Enjolras nods. “When should I come back?”

_Soon. Tomorrow. Every day after. Don’t go._

“Whenever is convenient for you,” Grantaire says, swallowing.

Enjolras considers for a moment. “A week from today,” he says.

 _Too long,_ cries a voice in Grantaire’s head. _Too long!_

“Same time?”

“If you will have me then.”

Grantaire nods. “Yes. Of course.”

“Next week.”

“Next week,” Grantaire confirms. He suddenly remembers: “Oh! and your pay for today.” He fumbles in the pocket of his trousers for the money Enjolras brought back earlier.

But Enjolras stops him: he lays a hand on his arm and stills it. Grantaire realises that this is the first time he’s touched him.

“No,” Enjolras says. “The food was enough.”

When Grantaire moves to speak, Enjolras stops him. “I am working tonight,” he explains, and it sounds like a confession. “I will be paid well,” he says quietly.

“Ah.” Grantaire nods. “I see.”

“Yes.”

They cannot meet each other’s eyes.

Enjolras moves to go. “Goodbye, Grantaire. And thank you.”

“It is I who should be thanking you,” Grantaire tells him. “You are without a doubt the best model I have ever had. You barely _moved_ all day, for one — nothing like my usual subjects.” He grins. “I am thankful to have found you, Enjolras,” he says, his tone growing serious. “Truly.”

“And I you,” Enjolras responds. “This was much more — enjoyable than standing on the street-corner all day.” As if he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, he reaches up a hand to brush lightly across his bruise.

“I’m glad,” Grantaire tells him gently. He catches Enjolras’ eye and offers a smile; shyly, it is returned.

“Goodbye, Enjolras,” he says.

“Goodbye.”

And he is gone.

Grantaire looks out the window and watches him go. Snow is falling thick and fast, and Enjolras has no coat; he shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches his slim shoulders against the chill wind. All at once Grantaire feels a deep and aching sadness for him. Enjolras will go, now, and wait in the alleyway where Grantaire found him, for some gentleman to pick him up and maybe — maybe, if he’s lucky — take him somewhere warm; and then take his pleasure with him, pay him, and return him to the freezing streets.

_I wanted him to stay. I should have asked him to stay._

*

Grantaire buys a bottle of red wine with the money Enjolras refused. He drinks it slowly, saving it. And he paints furiously: takes nude sketches from the pile on the table and paints them into life; goes to the parks and paints the snow-covered statues, the couples strolling in their coats and gloves. He paints faces and flowers and anything, everything. He paints more than he’s painted in months. He paintspaintspaints all day and all night and he makes the bottle of wine last the week; he imagines he is painting Enjolras again; he times it so that by the time the bottle is empty Enjolras will be here again.

And he is. Monday morning, ten o’clock: footsteps on the stairs, a knock at the door. Grantaire’s heart leaps into his throat. He springs up to get the door and there he is, Enjolras, his eyes still blue and his hair still gold and the bruise on his cheek faded nearly to nothing. Grantaire still can hardly believe he did not imagine him – but he says, “Hello! Do come in,” and Enjolras does, and he brushes against Grantaire and he _feels_ him and he is real.

“Hello, Grantaire,” says Enjolras, who is hovering like a candle flame, who has brought heat and light and life into the chilly dark lonely apartment.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire replies, and tries not to let his smile betray his relief, his disbelief. _He is here he is here he is here._

“What will we do today?” Enjolras asks him. _Down to business, once again._

“I had thought —”

Grantaire breaks off. How to tell Enjolras, how to say that he has thought of him, only of him, all week — that everything he has painted and sketched this week is but a poor substitute for him; that Grantaire has been dreaming of today for days now, and knows exactly what he wants — both to paint and otherwise?

“I had thought to draw you nude,” Grantaire says, and his voice snags on the last word; he flushes. “If you are comfortable, of course,” he hurries to add.

Enjolras nods curtly. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt — a different one than last time, Grantaire sees: this one is newer, the linen a creamier white, and less ragged; a gift, then, from some generous customer. Jealousy roils in the pit of Grantaire’s stomach, abrupt and sickening.

Enjolras’ chest is exposed now, he is working off the sleeves; and Grantaire has to turn away. His face is suddenly hot; he feels all at once that this was a horrible idea.

“Grantaire?”

He is afraid to turn around. He does anyway.

Enjolras stands nude, his clothing in a pile on the floor next to him. His body is lean, muscled, though unhealthily thin; his veins stand out blue in his marble wrists and chest. Grantaire can imagine his heart beating, hot and red and alive, beneath his breast, and he nearly shudders. He looks him directly in the eye when he speaks:

“Yes. All right.” He clears his throat. He is sure Enjolras can hear the pounding of his pulse. “On the window-seat, please.”

Enjolras obliges. He sits untimid, one knee to his chest, and waits for instruction.

Grantaire has seen this painting in his mind’s eye for a week now. He knows exactly what he wants, how it should look, how it _will_ look; why then can he not form the words to tell Enjolras how to pose?

Enjolras coughs from the window-seat: a harsh, painful sound that ruptures the silence. Pulled from his thoughts, Grantaire looks at him with concern:

 _“Ça va?”_ he asks.

Enjolras nods. His eyebrows draw together almost angrily: “It’s nothing.”

By now Grantaire knows that to press him for more is useless, so he nods too. “All right.”

He comes closer to Enjolras, scrutinising him, admiring the way he fits into the scenery: the gold of his hair against the yellow silk of the window-seat and the whiteness of the snow outside.

“Lying back, please,” Grantaire finally says.

Enjolras obliges.

“One hand above your head — lazy, like that. Yes.”

Grantaire pauses, considers. He tries not to look too hard, too hungrily at his model — Enjolras, even half-posed like this, is angelically, inhumanly lovely. His every movement — the smallest flicker of his eyelids, the slightest curve of his wrist — is graceful, expressive; and yet there is that wildness to him, just beneath the skin. Grantaire fears that if he looks at him for too long, Enjolras will vanish into thin air —  _or else I will betray myself._

 “Put up your knee as you had it before,” Grantaire instructs, willing his voice not to tremble. “And the other hand hidden — resting there — yes, that’s good.”

The pose is nearly complete, but not quite —

“Close your eyes,” Grantaire decides.

Enjolras fixes Grantaire with his lapis-lazuli gaze even as his eyelids slide slowly shut.

“And…arch your back a little.” Grantaire swallows.

Enjolras complies, and the figure he cuts is exactly what Grantaire has envisioned. A lazy god, tired from play; a young Achilles, basking in the sun —  _and where is his Patroclus?_

_Here, of course. Adoring._

*

He draws him quickly, right on the canvas this time, and the image seems to flow directly from life to the page. Enjolras lounges in a ray of sunlight, _like_ a ray of sunlight, and Grantaire paints him golden and languorous, and he can feel his blood coursing through his veins and hear his heart loud in his ears. He marvels at him, drinks him in, can hardly believe that he’s real.

Enjolras coughs. It makes him wince; his face contorts, but he doesn’t break the pose.

“Are you all right?” Grantaire asks, pausing, paintbrush suspended halfway to canvas.

Enjolras coughs again, tries to hide it. He shifts, his eyes flash. “I’m fine.”

He cuts his eyes at Grantaire, and, once again, he knows that the discussion is closed.

“ _D’accord_.” Although unconvinced, Grantaire goes back to painting, keeping a watchful eye on his subject.

It happens a few more times, as the day goes on, as the sunlight fills and then leaves the little chilly room. They take a break: Grantaire produces an old silk dressing-gown and hands it to Enjolras, who wraps himself gratefully against the cold air. He excuses himself — goes to the water closet, down the corridor. But the walls are thin: Grantaire can still hear him coughing, harsher now. He tries and fails to stifle it. When he slips back into the room there is a glass of water on the table and Grantaire’s back is turned.

Enjolras drains it, and then steals back to the window-seat; takes off the dressing-gown and arranges himself again.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says quietly, barely louder than a whisper.

Grantaire looks at him, eyebrows raised: “For what?” he asks innocently, blending white paint with linseed oil.

Enjolras looks away.

*

The painting is finished by the time the first stars appear in the sky.

“I have kept you longer this time,” Grantaire apologises. “I hope I have not made you late for — anything.”

Enjolras is dressing himself in the corner. The sight of him in clothes is hardly less exquisite than his naked form. “No,” he tells Grantaire, buttoning his shirt and coming to inspect the painting. “You have not.”

Grantaire suspects he is lying, but decides to let it pass. _If he wants to be here, I will not begrudge him._

Reluctantly —  _for now he will go —_ he retrieves Enjolras’ pay from the mantelpiece, where he’d laid it earlier. It is not much, and Grantaire’s face is apologetic as he presses it into his hand; but Enjolras takes it without comment.

“A drink?” Grantaire offers, although he knows he has little.

Enjolras shakes his head. “No, thank you.”

Grantaire is at first relieved —  _I will not have to be a poor host —_ but in the same breath he feels disappointment: _he has no more reason to stay._ He is about to, tentatively, casually, suggest that Enjolras return another day, when his model speaks:

“When shall I come back?”

Grantaire cannot help the little smile that steals now across his face.

“Any time,” he tells him. “I will be here.”

Enjolras, pulling on his boots, raises his eyebrows. “Any time at all?” he asks, and it almost sounds like he’s teasing.

“Yes,” Grantaire answers, smiling wider now. “Or if not here, at the wine-shop Corinthe. Assuming they’ll have me back after last time.” He dares a wink.

Enjolras’ lips quirk up. “The Corinthe,” he repeats. “All right.” He stands and stretches languidly. “Is the day after tomorrow too soon to return?” he asks casually.

Grantaire thinks he has heard him wrong, at first. “After tomorrow?” he repeats. “No! No, of course not — that is perfect, that will be — yes. The day after tomorrow.”

Enjolras looks at him with a trace of amusement in his eyes. He moves to go, one hand on the doorknob, as still and poised as he was at the window. And then — he coughs again, and again he tries to stifle it, but Grantaire sees the pain flash across his face. Instinctively, he steps forward, as if to do something; but Enjolras straightens up, and his eyes and his voice are hard when he says, “I will see you then, Grantaire.”

 _“A bientôt,”_ Grantaire says, powerless. The door slams shut.

*

The next day is colder. The frost on the windows does not melt all day; the rooftops are buried in snow, and Grantaire hears talk of the Seine freezing over. He shudders to think of Enjolras in the alleyway, fragile and cold —  _and that cough —_

And then the next day is colder still, and Grantaire does not expect Enjolras to come at all: _it would be folly._

But there is a knock at the door just past noon. Grantaire, disbelieving, opens the door and finds Enjolras. He is shivering: his pretty lips have a bluish tinge. “Hello, Grantaire,” he mumbles, and his breath comes out in a puff of smoke. He coughs, again and again.

“Good day, Enjolras,” Grantaire says worriedly, ushering him inside and shutting the door firmly against the cold howling wind outside. “You did not have to come today.”

Grantaire had wisely decided to spend money on extra firewood instead of extra wine this week, and there is a roaring fire blazing in the stove. Enjolras goes immediately to warm himself by it. His worn leather boots track snow across the wood floor.

“I wanted to,” Enjolras says, his back to Grantaire. His arms are wrapped tightly around himself and his teeth are chattering.

Grantaire swallows. “I see,” he forces out.

Enjolras turns back to him. “Actually, I —”

He stops. He sighs, and it turns into another hacking cough, worse than any before. Grantaire hovers, waiting anxiously; but it finally ceases, and Enjolras continues.

“I had hoped — not to pose today, but just — to stay.” He hesitates. “I do not mean to impose — it is only that I…well, I have nowhere else to go.” He looks at Grantaire, nervous: awaiting rejection.

“Of course,” Grantaire says in a rush. “Yes, of course, of course you may stay — and you don’t have to pose, it’s too cold to paint anyway…” He smiles, his heart thudding.

Relief washes over Enjolras’ features. “Thank you. Thank you, Grantaire. Oh — thank God. I do not know what I would have done if you had said no,” he confesses abruptly, looking away. He bites his lip. “I — Thank you.”

Grantaire nods, offering a gentle smile. Silently, he goes to his bedroom; he finds what few warm things he can spare: his overcoat, for one, made of heavy tweed but threadbare, with several buttons missing; and two worn-out woollen blankets from the bed.

Bearing these he returns to the kitchen, where Enjolras has pulled up a chair to the fireside and sits huddled in the warmth.

 _“Pour toi,”_ Grantaire says without thinking, handing him the coat and blankets. He registers what he’s said after it’s too late.

Enjolras looks up, curious: he has noticed the slip, the use of the informal _you_. But he says nothing of it, only accepts the things with a soft _“Merci.”_

 _“Désolé,”_ Grantaire apologises. “I did not mean to —” He stops. “We are essentially strangers,” he says. “It was rude of me.”

Enjolras, now wrapped in the overcoat, shrugs. _“Ça ne me fait pas._ ” Grantaire gives him a grateful smile.

Enjolras pauses. He fixes Grantaire with that gaze of his, and a subtle shift seems to come over him: all at once Grantaire sees the boy in the alleyway, and when Enjolras speaks his voice is liquid gold again:

“You have been too kind to me,” he comments, and he uses _tu_ now. “I must be able to — repay you somehow.”

He looks Grantaire full in the eye, letting him absorb the meaning. His eyebrows lift just slightly: a challenge, an invitation; and Grantaire shifts uncomfortably.

“No,” he says quietly, although every cell in his body is screaming the opposite. “No, Enjolras — I believe I know what you mean, and I cannot allow you to.”

Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot up now, in surprise rather than calculation, and his voice has a chilly edge:

“Oh? Not to your taste, then?”

Grantaire flushes. “No,” he says, “it is not that: certainly not,” he admits. He clears his throat. “It is only that I do not expect to be — repaid. In any way. You may stay without conditions.”

Enjolras nods slowly, evidently still not convinced. But all gilt and ice are gone from his voice when he says, “As long as you are sure it is not an inconvenience — it is only for tonight, I assure you.”

“It is not,” Grantaire tells him. “And — you may stay as long as you need.” _As long as you want._

“Thank you,” Enjolras says politely, but Grantaire knows he will only stay the night; his pride will permit him no longer.

Enjolras coughs now, and it racks his slim frame. He winces: Grantaire winces out of sympathy. He remembers spying a handkerchief in the overcoat; he goes to Enjolras’ side and slips a hand in the pocket. Grantaire presses the handkerchief into his hand and, grateful, Enjolras brings it to his lips. Grantaire can only watch in apprehension as he continues to cough and cough and cough.

When the fit has subsided he takes the handkerchief away from his mouth. In the light of the fire Grantaire sees blood spotted there, scarlet.

He raises his eyes to Enjolras’ in silent fright, but Enjolras looks away. He stuffs the bloodied cloth back into the pocket and folds his arms across his chest.

“It’s nothing,” he says, and the tone of his voice is such that Grantaire can only nod.

“If you are sure,” Grantaire says.

“I am.” And Enjolras turns his back on Grantaire and hunches his shoulders, and it’s clear that the discussion is over.

Grantaire lingers for a moment — anxious, helpless, torn — and then he leaves the room and leaves Enjolras alone.

*

In the morning Enjolras is gone, as Grantaire knew he would be. The overcoat and blankets are neatly folded on the chair by the fireside where Enjolras spent all afternoon. Grantaire had braved the cold, gone out and bought food and wine with the money Enjolras had brought with him —  _that is how he will repay me, nothing more;_ but Enjolras had spent the whole day huddled in the warmth of the fire, as if he had never been, would never be warm.

He fell asleep there at one point, and quietly, Grantaire had sketched him: _he was too beautiful not to._ His lovely hair falling soft across his face; his eyelashes long and fair against his pale cheeks, his full lips slightly parted — Grantaire sat and sketched him and felt his heart expand inside his chest until he felt he would burst, and in that moment he knew.

It is this sketch he picks up now, in the morning; the snow has stopped falling and the frost on the windowpanes is slowly starting to melt. Grantaire studies Enjolras’ face etched out in charcoal; he glances again to the pile of warm things on the chair, and he sees a note atop them.

 _I am sorry to leave before you wake,_ it says; _but I have clients who expect me, whatever the weather. Thank you for your kindness, Grantaire. I will be back, I promise you._

His signature is looped and lazy, carelessly lovely —  _like him._

But after it, in smaller letters:

_My offer still stands._

A rush of heat floods Grantaire’s body at this, warmer than the heat of the fire, and he stands for a moment with his eyes tightly shut, clutching the note and cursing his own body.

_It means nothing to him. He offers because he has nothing else to give. He does not truly want me._

No matter how certain he is of this –—which is to say, entirely — Grantaire cannot help but want _him_ anyway. He stands frozen, eyes still closed, succumbing for a moment: daring to imagine Enjolras’ touch; his hands, his lips, on his face, his chest – Enjolras’ body warm and lean against his own —

_Enough._

Grantaire’s eyes snap open. He feels his hands start to shake. He goes to the bedroom, to the loose floorboard; finds his snuff-box, takes out tobacco and papers and matches. He rolls a meagre cigarette and lights it with trembling fingers; he smokes it slowly, forcing himself to breathe, feeling his heartbeat slow. When his hands have stopped shaking he stubs it out and sighs.

“He said he would be back,” he says aloud, his own voice sounding queer and harsh in the cold still air. “He will come back. I will see him again.”

The thought makes him shiver. He goes back out to the kitchen, where the air is warmer. He sees the drawing of Enjolras asleep, and another wave of desire crashes over him, and all at once he cannot stand it. Some madness takes hold —  _I cannot bear to see his face any more —_ Grantaire picks up the drawing and crushes it in his hands and throws it into the fire.

He regrets it as soon as he’s done it.

*

Two weeks pass before he sees Enjolras again. It’s Christmas Eve, and colder than ever; another snowstorm wallops Paris and the freezing air rattles the windowpanes. After the day he burned the drawing, when Enjolras had not returned, Grantaire had accepted that he was not coming back; he supposed that in burning his image he had somehow destroyed any chance of seeing his face again, and felt too that he deserved it. _The gods made a mistake in sending him to me; I never deserved to have such beauty in my life, and now I am being punished._

He’d accepted it, and tried to move on with his work; money was running dangerously low, so he’d cautiously returned to the Corinthe and asked a few silly girls there if he could draw their pictures. Their gentlemen friends had bought the portraits (for a slightly inflated fee, unbeknownst to them), and Grantaire had bought wine and meat and tobacco and bread. But that was last week already, and since then he’s painted very little; he’s running low on firewood, just now when he needs it most. Each night he drinks a little wine ( _to keep warm,_ he tells himself): but it’s not enough, never enough; he goes to bed sober and shivering. He finds himself dreaming of Enjolras, and wakes aching.

Tonight, though: Christmas Eve. Grantaire has been drinking for an hour now, allowing himself more wine than usual; his face is flushed and he feels warm and content, sitting close to the fire and staring out at the storm outside. It’s late, and he is beginning to doze off when he hears a knock at the door.

He jerks awake, stands shakily. The knocking comes again, louder this time. And then:

“Grantaire?”

It’s Enjolras’ voice. This shocks Grantaire into steadiness; he makes his way to the door, shivering now he’s away from the heat of the fire, and opens to find his model on the threshold.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says in surprise, and his words are slightly slurred. “I didn’t think you’d come back,” he blurts out.

Enjolras steps inside without a word. He’s wearing a black coat that’s too big for him, and his snow-covered boots look new; he sees Grantaire looking at them, confused, and he says, “From a client.”

Grantaire nods, his head still hazy. He watches dumbly as Enjolras takes off his coat and boots and goes, once again, to sit by the fire, as if he does this every day.

“What are you doing here?” Grantaire asks finally. His tongue feels thick.

“I was in the neighbourhood,” Enjolras says coolly.

“Oh,” Grantaire says.

“Yes.”

Grantaire clears his throat. “May I — offer you a drink?”

Enjolras nods. “Yes, thank you.”

So Grantaire fetches the wine and pours Enjolras a glass before topping up his own. He sits next to Enjolras, still feeling like he’s caught in a fever-dream, and raises his glass.

 _“Salut,”_ he intones.

 _“Et Joyeux Noël,”_ Enjolras adds. They drink.

They sit in silence, in the warmth, drinking their wine slowly and not speaking.

Grantaire drains his cup. He’s feeling pleasantly tipsy, and warm all over. Enjolras’ presence is electrifying: he is acutely aware of every movement he makes; of his body slouched gracefully in the rough-hewn kitchen chair, his arm resting on the table near Grantaire’s. Grantaire stares at him, marvels once more that he is here, flesh and blood and _here._

Enjolras looks up from his cup and catches Grantaire staring. The corners of his mouth lift in a smirk.

“Cigarette?” Grantaire asks abruptly, flushing.

Enjolras drains his wine and licks a last drop from his lips. “Please.”

Grantaire fetches the snuff-box and rolls two cigarettes. He puts them between his lips, strikes a match and lights them both, Enjolras’ eyes on his all the while. He passes one to Enjolras with an unsteady hand.

Enjolras leans back in his chair and takes a deep drag, eyes closed; he gives a hum of contentment and blows the smoke out in a cloud. “Thank you,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “It’s been a while since I’ve indulged.”

He barely gets the words out before they’re cut off with a cough: not like last time’s, though; _it must merely be brought on by the smoke_ …Grantaire worries for him all the same. He smokes slowly and he watches Enjolras, and he knows that Enjolras knows it.

Enjolras takes one last drag and opens his eyes, fixing his gaze on Grantaire. He exhales.

“Might I spend the night again?” he asks casually, stubbing out his cigarette. “You may paint me, if you’d like.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says too quickly, his tongue loosened by the wine. “Stay. And — yes. I would love to paint you again.” The words spill out like oil from a jar.

Enjolras studies his face for a moment, then smiles slowly. “All right. Thank you.”

Grantaire stands, unsteady. “Let me get my things.”

He gathers his oil-paints, the linseed oil, brushes, his smock, and the dressing-gown for Enjolras; he finds a blank canvas and brings his easel away from the window, nearer the warmth. Enjolras waits patiently in the kitchen; when everything is prepared he asks, “And me?”

“Nude,” Grantaire says without thinking. He colours. “Please.”

Enjolras nods. Quickly and efficiently, he sheds his clothing. He stands with his back to the fire, his skin seeming to glow hot from the inside. He is ethereal in the golden light, his outline made hazy and luminous by the fire and the drink. _Apollo,_ Grantaire thinks, and has to look away.

“Stand however you would like,” he says. He does not think he can stand to watch Enjolras any more, to tell him how to stand — or to touch him, pose him, arrange his hands and limbs… _No. Let him decide._

Enjolras thinks for a moment, and then plants his bare feet hip-width apart. He places one hand on his hip; the other rests negligently between his legs. He looks down, across his body, casual, distracted; a perfect Greek statue.

“Good. Yes. Thank you,” Grantaire mumbles. He goes behind the easel and begins to mix his paints. He does not need to sketch today; he is confident, buoyed-up, his heart racing. He chooses golds and reds, and a vibrant blue for Enjolras’ eyes — everything suffused with fire and heat. The smell of the linseed oil is heady.

He begins to paint, soft lines and rounded edges, Enjolras’ body taking shape on the canvas. The real Enjolras stands in silence and stillness; the clock on the mantel-piece ticks out seconds, minutes, nearly an hour. And then, out of nowhere, Enjolras speaks —

“It seems unjust, you know.”

Grantaire looks up, startled, as if waking from a trance. “What does?”

Enjolras lifts a shoulder and lets it drop. “This,” he says, gesturing to his naked form. Grantaire looks confused, so he continues: deliberately, he says, “You have seen me _en déshabille,_ and yet I have not seen you. Unjust, wouldn’t you say?”

Grantaire is stunned. For a moment he knows not how to respond. “I —” he begins, and then stops.

“Go on, then,” Enjolras challenges him. He picks up the dressing-gown, puts it on, and moves fluidly to sit in one of the kitchen chairs: Grantaire can’t paint him now. He sets down his brush, struck dumb.

“I —” Grantaire finds his voice. “You will not like what you see,” he warns. “I am not anything close to beautiful.”

Enjolras shrugs. “And if I don’t care?”

This stops Grantaire in his tracks. “All right, then,” he says very quietly, feeling dizzy. “But — turn around.”

Enjolras, with practised emphasis, turns his gaze to the wall.

Slowly, Grantaire unties his smock and lets it fall to the floor. With clumsy fingers he finds the top button of his shirt; he undoes the rest unskillfully, his hands shaking. His trousers and underthings pool around his ankles, and he steps to the side.

He clears his throat. Enjolras turns round.

Grantaire swallows hard as Enjolras stands and comes closer. He can feel his eyes on his body: he is acutely, miserably aware of his olive skin, the roundness of his gut; the various and ugly scars that mark his hands and arms and chest. He is too conscious of Enjolras near him, circling him slowly, taking it all in: Enjolras, his perfect opposite, smaller and leaner with his soft pale skin and his fair hair tumbling loose down his back. Grantaire scrubs an awkward hand through his own wild black curls and waits.

“You are an athlete,” Enjolras declares finally, having made a circuit and returned to stand in front of Grantaire. This is so utterly unexpected that Grantaire does not know what to say: of all the observations Enjolras could have made, he did not think it would have been that.

“Well – yes,” Grantaire answers him. “I box when I have the time. I can fence. I can dance,” he adds in a rush, desperately nervous, praying that his body does not respond visibly to Enjolras’ proximity. The dressing-gown is slightly open, falling off one shoulder, and Grantaire fights to keep his eyes on Enjolras’ face.

“Admirable,” Enjolras says. And then — unprecedented, before Grantaire can even process what he’s doing — he reaches up with a graceful hand to stroke a scar on Grantaire’s right biceps. “And these?”

“Miscellanies,” Grantaire replies, fighting to keep his voice steady. Enjolras’ touch on his arm is light, warm —  _like sunlight_ , he thinks absurdly; and Enjolras is even closer to him now. He carries on to distract himself. “One or two from fencing matches, with…overzealous opponents. The occasional tavern brawl. Nothing of import.”

“Hmm,” is Enjolras’ only response, and his fingers don’t leave Grantaire’s skin. He steps closer still. Grantaire can hear his own blood screaming through his veins. He is madly convinced that Enjolras is a mirage, a hallucination brought on by the wine and the warmth; he doesn’t believe it when Enjolras lifts his other hand to rest on Grantaire’s other arm, and then he steps so close that they are pressed together; and he is certain he is dreaming when Enjolras presses his lips to his.

Grantaire freezes. All the blood in his body rushes downwards. He kisses him back.

Enjolras tastes of smoke and wine and winter; his lips are soft, he kisses expertly. Grantaire’s hands fly up of their own volition and find purchase in Enjolras’ curls, and for a blissful age they stay that way. Enjolras’ hips press into Grantaire’s, and surely he must _know,_ must _feel,_ but he’s not stopping, not changing anything —  _what have I done to deserve this, my God? —_

And then Grantaire comes to a realisation, and he pulls back.

“Not like this,” he gasps out.

Enjolras, his lips reddened, frowns; but it looks too innocent, rehearsed. “Not like what?” he asks, and it’s practically a purr.

“Like this,” Grantaire tries to explain. His head is reeling. “You don’t — you want — you feel you have to repay me,” he stammers out. “You feel you owe me…this.”

And Enjolras shrugs, and it means _you are not wrong,_ and Grantaire’s heart plummets. _Of course. Of course. How could I have been such a fool?_

Grantaire feels his face colour as the blood returns to it, and he turns away, angry with Enjolras, angrier with himself. “Well — I refuse. You do not owe me a thing. Especially not — especially not _this.”_ He gestures savagely at the air between them.

“If you do not want me,” Enjolras begins, nonchalant, as if it matters not to him one way or another —  _and it doesn’t, of course it doesn’t —_ “then I will go,” he says. He casts a glance to the half-finished painting on the easel.

“No,” Grantaire says harshly, surprising even himself. “No. You have nowhere else to go, Enjolras. You told me so yourself.”

All at once Enjolras’ eyes flash with anger. His temper flares, he scoffs: “I can go anywhere I please! _Millions_ of men would be _grateful_ to have me in their beds tonight,” he says petulantly — but his voice trembles, and Grantaire knows he is posturing. “If you do not want me, I see no reason to stay.” And he goes to the pile of his clothes on the floor and undoes the dressing-gown, makes to get dressed again.

“Don’t leave.” Grantaire’s voice steadies. “You are ill, Enjolras. No —” He holds up a hand; Enjolras has turned round and, indignant, opened his mouth to protest. “You are. You are thin, Enjolras, too thin, and you’ve been coughing up blood. You cannot hide it from me.”

Enjolras’ face darkens. His lips form a sullen moue, but he does not argue. He hesitates, his shirt half-buttoned.

“It’s cold. Please, Enjolras. Please stay.” Grantaire’s voice is quiet.

After a long, tense silence, Enjolras nods curtly. He dresses himself in silence and slumps into a seat by the fire with his back to Grantaire, and he sits completely immobile.

“I am going to bed,” Grantaire says softly. He leaves the canvas and paints; he’ll clean up in the morning, for right now he is drained, barely able to comprehend the events of the last while. “Cover the fire before you retire, please.”

He leaves him there and goes to the bedroom —  _one bed;_ he puts on his night-clothes and crawls between the cold sheets and lies awake for a long, long time.

Enjolras does not creep into bed until after he is sure Grantaire is asleep. They lay far apart, an ocean between them.

*

Grantaire awakes first, early: Christmas morning. Shivering, head pounding, he makes his way into the kitchen, pokes at the embers of last night’s fire. The winter sunlight glints daggers off the windowpanes and there — there is the easel, still standing, with the half-finished painting sitting patiently in wait. At the sight of it everything comes rushing back — last night, the wine, the warmth — Enjolras…Grantaire groans. He sits heavily down in a chair and buries his throbbing head in his hands.

When his head has stopped spinning and the light no longer makes him wince, Grantaire starts trying to make sense of last night’s events. He would not believe they had happened at all, if not for the ache in his head, the canvas near the fire — and the very real presence of Enjolras in his bed. _He stayed._

Grantaire rises. He puts water on to boil, finds bread and cheese for breakfast; he goes about his morning tasks numbly, in a haze, and when he hears the creak of the bedroom door it sounds as loud as gunfire.

“Good morning,” says Enjolras. Grantaire turns.

“Good morning,” he replies, and he swallows.

Enjolras stands on the threshold in yesterday’s clothes with the dressing-gown thrown over his thin shoulders, his hair in a tangle like a ball of gold thread. His face is pale, his eyes are darkly ringed. He pads out into the kitchen and wraps the robe closer around himself, shivering. “It’s cold.”

“Yes,” Grantaire manages. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Enjolras returns. He looks young; his lips are chapped; he looks fragile and waiflike and as if a gust of wind could shatter him. Grantaire wants to take him in his arms and keep him safe and warm. He wants to kiss his face and his mouth and every part of him, all over; he wants to take him back to bed and hold him fiercely until there is no space between them, until every cell of their bodies are touching, until they are nothing but skin and sweat and heat —

but instead, he says, “Breakfast?” and he brings him food and tea and offers up his seat next to the fire. Enjolras thanks him; he eats quickly, in silence.

“Will you paint again today?” he asks when he’s finished.

“If you don’t mind,” Grantaire says.

And so Grantaire mixes his paints and Enjolras undresses (in the daylight Grantaire can count his ribs) and he tries to hide that he’s coughing again, that the cold air is making it worse, but Grantaire can hear him, of course he can. Enjolras’ eyes look young and defiant and so he says nothing about it.

Enjolras is shivering the whole time he poses. Grantaire paints quickly: his strokes are messy, rushed; it gives the painting a blurred, otherworldly look. He finishes too soon — he’d have liked to spend more time on details, little things — light glinting off Enjolras’ curls, the long elegant lines of his hands — but Enjolras is coughing and cold and he can’t bear to see him this way.

“It’s done,” Grantaire announces in the early afternoon. Enjolras can’t hide his look of relief. He puts on the dressing-gown with haste, his cold-numbed fingers slipping on the ties. He comes to look at the painting, and he looks genuinely shocked at what he sees.

“Why, Grantaire —” he begins. He breaks off. “My God. It’s extraordinary.” He looks at Grantaire with awe. “You astound me.”

Grantaire feels himself blush. “You remember what I said about the beautiful things,” he mumbles.

“Yes, yes. And I don’t believe you.” Enjolras lays a hand on Grantaire’s arm, careful. “You are gifted, Grantaire. _You_ have the talent. All I do is stand there.” And he smiles.

“Thank you,” Grantaire murmurs. “I disagree, but thank you.” He clears his throat. “Cigarette?” he asks, craving one himself. At Enjolras’ nod he crosses to the cupboard, takes out the nearly-empty snuff-box, rolls two slim cigarettes. He lights both and passes one to his model.

“Really, Grantaire,” Enjolras says softly, a few moments later, exhaling deeply. He looks him right in the eye, and there is no trace of artifice there. “Your work is incredible. As good as —” he casts about for names — “as Prud’hon, or Gericault, or, or… Delacroix, even.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “As good as _Eugène Delacroix_ ,” he repeats suspiciously. “Really.”

“ _Really!”_ Enjolras laughs. “I mean it, I do.” He grows serious again, takes another drag on his cigarette and fixes Grantaire’s eye: “Listen. I have several…wealthy clients who are patrons of the arts. Your work is admirable; I am sure they would be eager to see it, to — to _buy it_ , even.”

Grantaire is stunned. “You think so?”

Enjolras nods earnestly.

“I do, Grantaire. And — the fact that I am the subject will help, too,” he offers bashfully. “Will help considerably. Look — the next time I…see one of them, I’ll drop in a good word for you. I am sure they will be interested.” He looks down. “And I can always be persuasive when I need to,” he murmurs, almost as an afterthought. He looks back up at Grantaire.

“So? What do you say? Will you allow me to repay your kindness in this way?”

Grantaire’s mind is racing. _Imagine —_ wealthy patrons, collectors, the Paris élite: seeing his art, liking his art, _buying_ his art…No more hawking in the parks, no more sketches sold in taverns. _Imagine._

He swallows. “Yes. Yes.”

A smile spreads across Enjolras’ face. He looks — excited, alight, like a little boy; he’s thrilled with himself, with his plan, and it makes Grantaire smile too.

“I must go,” Enjolras announces abruptly. He casts a glance out the window: it’s just past noon now, the sun is high in the sky and the light off the snowy rooftops is blinding. He stubs out his cigarette, gathers his coat, starts pulling his boots on and making to leave.

“But —” Grantaire is taken aback. “But it’s Christmas,” he says stupidly.

Enjolras pauses in tying his boot and looks up at him with something like pity in his eyes. “I know,” he says softly, and it sounds like an apology. He bends his head again, tugging at his laces with clumsy fingers, and then straightens up. “I will talk to my clients for you,” he says, “and I will be back, I promise.” He smiles: quick, and then it’s gone.

And then he too is gone, out the door in a flash. His boots make gentle noise on the stairs. Grantaire moves to the window; he opens it and a cold breeze hits his face. He sees Enjolras step out into the street, squinting in the harsh light. He leans over the sill and takes a last drag on his forgotten cigarette, burnt nearly down to his finger-tips.

“Goodbye, Enjolras,” Grantaire calls down, his words a cloud of smoke.

Enjolras looks up. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he raises a hand, and even from here Grantaire can see the lazy grin that spreads across his face.

“Goodbye, Grantaire,” he calls back. _“A bientôt.”_

*

Enjolras comes back the next day and his eyes are shining. “Got one,” he crows triumphantly as soon as Grantaire lets him in.

“One what?” Grantaire asks, dazed.

“A buyer, of course!” Enjolras enthuses. “I saw one of my regulars after I left here yesterday. He’s a baron, estranged from the family but not from their funds — terribly self-important, always strutting about, wears far too much hair-oil — but _anyway,_ he’s quite a collector and is especially fond, for obvious reasons, of male nudes.”

Enjolras pauses to take a breath: Grantaire is briefly stunned, never having seen him so effusive.

  _“And,_ when I told him I’d had some portraits painted of myself — nudes, of course — his eyes practically popped out of his skull,” Enjolras continues. “He says he is _absolutely interested_ in seeing them, _oui, oui, bien sûr,_ and that he could _quite easily be persuaded_ to buy one or two or even _all_ of them, and so I gave him your address and told him to come by anytime and see them!” Enjolras beams. _“Voilà!_ How do you like that, Grantaire?”

Grantaire is speechless, still shocked at Enjolras’ enthusiasm — Enjolras, who is normally so reserved and haughty… _This really must be important to him._

“I — I am amazed, Enjolras,” he finally says. “I cannot believe you were able to find someone so quickly. And he really might be interested — he really might want to buy —?”

Enjolras nods vigorously. “I told you, Grantaire, I can be _very_ persuasive.” He winks. Grantaire feels suddenly sick to his stomach.

“You don’t mean —?” he asks, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Oh, no, nothing like _that,_ ” Enjolras scoffs. He shrugs:

“He enjoys my company. I’ve been seeing him for almost six months; he was one of my first clients and is still one of my best. I can get him to do almost _anything_ if I just _look_ at him the right way,” he says, offhand. “Such was the case yesterday. I may have insinuated something about Christmas and the spirit of giving or something vulgar like that, but no more. I promise,” he adds, seeing the scepticism still lingering in Grantaire’s eyes. “I do.”

“If you’re certain,” Grantaire says wearily, deciding not to fight it. _Even if he did — it’s his choice._ “I just don’t want you to feel you have to do…anything…on my behalf.”

“I don’t,” Enjolras says primly, and that is that. “Now. I’m sorry, but I must be going. The baron will be round here sometime today, I’d expect; so keep an eye out. You won’t miss him: he’s _un vrai bellâtre,_ about six feet tall and thin as a rake, voice like fingernails on a window-pane; he carries a little gold-tipped cane and reeks constantly of Macassar oil.” Enjolras smiles. “Good luck, Grantaire.”

*

The baron visits later that day — true to Enjolras’ description, he is carrying a slim ebony-wood cane with a massive gold topper, his dark hair gleaming with hair-oil and slicked aggressively off his rather pinched face — and he pores over the portraits for nearly an hour, humming and hawing before finally coming to a decision.

“I’ll take this one,” he says, pointing to the most recent painting: of Enjolras in the firelight from just the other night, the one Grantaire has privately taken to calling _Apollo._

“No,” Grantaire says before he can stop himself. The baron looks at him as if he’s sprouted another head. “No. I am sorry, sir, but that one is not for sale.”

He hadn’t planned this, hadn’t meant to keep it — but now, the thought, the possibility of having it taken from him, of never seeing it again — it would be like giving away the memory of that night, of all that had come after. _I can’t._

The baron _harrumphs_ and ostentatiously fingers his silk cravat. “Well. All right, then, I will take this one,” he says petulantly, jabbing a finger at the painting of Enjolras nude on the window-seat. Grantaire relaxes.

“Certainly, sir,” he says.

“How much?” the baron asks impatiently. “Five hundred napoleons? Six?”

Grantaire’s eyes widen. “Six-fifty,” he hears himself say, swallowing hard. The baron rolls his eyes and gives an exasperated sigh, but he reaches for his pocket-book with one calfskin-gloved hand and counts out the money: six 100-franc coins and one 50. He hands them to Grantaire, and their weight in his hand is astonishing. He murmurs a bewildered _“Merci, monsieur.”_

“I will send someone to collect the painting later,” the baron announces. His valet, lurking until now by the doorway, appears to help him into his coat. At the door, the baron pauses: _“Au revoir, monsieur…_ Grantaire, was it?”

“Yes, m’sieur,” Grantaire forces out, still stunned.

“Grantaire. Well, thank you, young man. This piece is…frankly, exquisite, and will be a valuable addition to my collection,” the baron says unexpectedly. “I will be sure to let my friends know who the artist is.” And he smiles: a forced, practised, society smile — but a smile all the same.

The door closes silently. Grantaire sinks into a kitchen chair, staring down at the coins clutched in his hand, and offers up a prayer of thanks to whichever god sent Enjolras to him.

*

That evening two men in the baron’s livery come to collect the painting. Grantaire, watching them go, feels a small pang: he feels as though it is not something _he_ had created, but rather he and Enjolras both; fragments of the two of them, moments, hours they had shared. _I will never get those back._

Later, though, Enjolras returns, looking drawn and pale and possessing none of the manic intensity that he had had this morning. “Hello, Grantaire,” he says, slumping wearily into a chair near the fire and leaning close to warm his hands. “Did the baron visit?”

“Yes, and bought a painting,” Grantaire replies, coming too to sit by the stove. He looks at Enjolras with concern. “Is everything all right?”

“Which painting?” Enjolras asks, ignoring.

“The window-seat.”

Enjolras nods. “Good choice,” he says, and then he coughs. He winces and puts a hand to his chest. “How much?” he asks weakly.

“Six hundred fifty,” Grantaire responds automatically, distracted. “What’s wrong, Enjolras? You sound worse tonight, much worse.”

Enjolras glares at him. “It’s _nothing,_ I told you. Just — just the cold.” His words are cut off by another coughing fit. “You got a good price,” he adds when it’s finished, “but you could ask for even more. I guarantee it.”

“He wanted another one,” Grantaire tells him hesitantly. “The one from — from Christmas Eve.”

Enjolras’ eyes, weary as they are, flicker with understanding. “Ah. But — you would not sell it?”

“No. It is — precious to me.”

Enjolras nods. Some comprehension passes between them.

“Stay tonight,” Grantaire implores him when Enjolras coughs again. “You must.”

 “I won’t,” Enjolras snaps, suddenly full of fire and life again. He stands at once and nearly stumbles; he clutches at the chair and rights himself. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

“ _Please,_ Enjolras! You are killing yourself!” Grantaire explodes. “You are out every night on the streets, in the cold — you see clients every day — you are ill, Enjolras, and not taking care of yourself. Do you not _want_ to get better?”

His words ring loud and hang in the air far too long. Enjolras stares at him, seething.

“What does it matter to you?” he hisses finally. “It does not matter to anyone else. I am just an _object_ to you, to all of you – a pretty boy, something to paint — you think maybe you’ll get one quick fuck if you’re lucky. Isn’t that right, Grantaire?” he jeers, practically spitting the words. “That’s what you _really_ want from me: that’s all _anyone_ wants from me. All of this business — I’m your _muse,_ the ‘beautiful things’ — you don’t mean any of it, do you?”

Enjolras’ voice is harsh and raw and his lovely face is contorted in exhaustion and rage. Tears glimmer in his eyes and he reaches a furious hand up to swipe them away. He and Grantaire stare at one another in tense awful silence for an agonising moment; Grantaire’s throat is tight. He wants nothing more than to take Enjolras in his arms, to hold him close and tell him no, no, he has it all wrong —  _tell him that I love him, for I do, oh, God, I love him  —_

and he takes a step forward to do so, but Enjolras whips around as if he’d been slapped. A strangled sound escapes his throat, something like a sob, and then he is gone.

He is gone, out the door before Grantaire can even call out and protest. He races to the door, throws it open, looks wildly down the dark corridor; he hears Enjolras’ boots thudding down the stairs, and then he hears a door slamming shut.

“Oh, God, Enjolras — come back —  _Enjolras!”_ he cries into the darkness. He knows it’s hopeless.

Numb, Grantaire goes back inside. Idly, desperately, he wonders if this time is really the last.

*

But then Enjolras comes back, a few days later. He comes back, and he brings with him a canvas bag: inside are a few pieces of clothing, a couple worn and tattered books, assorted small trinkets and a little leather purse of coins. He comes back with everything he owns and when he looks at Grantaire with a question, an apology in his eyes Grantaire nods and tells him silently _yes, yes._

They don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about the things they said that night; but they both know they are forgiven.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired largely by Ellis Avery's [The Last Nude](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/10836810-the-last-nude) and also the film _Moulin Rouge!_. The title is a quote from [House of Leaves](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/337907.House_of_Leaves), "there's no second I've lived you can't call your own," which I've chopped in half and translated, un-literally, into French. These characters aren't mine; all credit for their creation goes to Victor Hugo.
> 
> All my thanks, as always, to [birdling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/birdling) and [Redcap64](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Redcap64/pseuds/Redcap64) for beta-reading draft after draft of "Tragic Prostitute Enjolras", as I often forget this fic isn't actually called. You guys are the best. ❤️


	2. Chapter 2

*

Things are not much different after that. Enjolras still goes out and meets his clients: he still sees all his regulars in Montmartre, and Grantaire knows that he has picked up some new ones in this neighbourhood, too. Sometimes there will be nights when he disappears early and does not come back til halfway through the next day, only to repeat the whole process a few hours later. Grantaire does not like those nights and days.

What he likes are the nights when Enjolras stays in. On those nights, they have a simple supper and drink wine by the fire, and they don’t always talk but sometimes they do, and Enjolras asks questions about Grantaire and his life but Grantaire is not allowed to do the same. (He has never said this out loud but they both know it to be true.)

And then Enjolras will go to bed in Grantaire’s bedroom and Grantaire will sleep in the parlour, no matter how much Enjolras protests that he should sleep in his own bed. They don’t touch. (Enjolras’ words from their fight are too fresh in Grantaire’s ears: he is afraid that, no matter how much he wants to —  _yearns to needs to aches to —_ touch him again, if he does they will become true.)

Enjolras’ fits of coughing sometimes wake him in the night, his whole body wracked and shivering; and then Grantaire will wake too, and he will lie silent and still with his ear trained to the bedroom door, waiting for the fit to subside, ready to spring up and help should it get any worse — and then he will lie heart pounding and try to force himself not to hear as the coughing turns to sobbing, as it does without fail.

(In the morning, once, Grantaire asked Enjolras if he was all right, if he had had trouble sleeping, if the coughing fits were getting worse. The look he received in return was deadly enough to prevent him from asking again, no matter how much he worries.)

Enjolras coughs during the day, too, and his handkerchiefs are stained with blood, and he is growing thinner and thinner and his eyes are rimmed darker every day. But he refuses to admit that anything is wrong — until one night when he comes home in the middle of the night and he is burning up with fever, face flushed and eyes glazed and barely able to hold himself up. The door slams behind him; in the parlour, Grantaire looks up from his sketching with alarm and stands at once, just in time to see Enjolras collapse on the kitchen floor.

“Enjolras! My God, what is it?” he cries. He rushes to his side and kneels, puts an anxious hand to his forehead.

Enjolras groans. “Grantaire,” he slurs out.

 “Oh, Jesus, Enjolras, you have a fever — you’re burning up…”

 Grantaire hurries about the kitchen, fetching a cloth, wetting it in cold water, pressing it to his face. He cradles Enjolras’ head in his lap, strokes sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead; he murmurs soothing words in frantic whispers and he has never felt so helpless in his life.

*

The night drags on long and the fever doesn’t break til dawn. At some point they made their way into the parlour, the two of them curled in one chintz chair, Grantaire supporting Enjolras’ weight as he shivered and sweated and moaned and cried.

Grantaire thought he heard him call out names, occasionally: men’s names, they sounded like, or else surnames; they meant nothing to him, but evidently something to Enjolras, and Grantaire viciously stifled the seed of jealousy that began to take root in his stomach. _Not now. Not now!_

At some point, thankfully, Enjolras lapsed into sleep; Grantaire kept vigil as the stars disappeared and a weak sun rose in the watery sky.

Enjolras’ skin is pale and damp — but cool, mercifully cool — when he wakes. He stirs feebly, disoriented, surprised to find himself in Grantaire’s arms; Grantaire quickly disengages himself and stands, making sure Enjolras is still seated comfortably.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire greets him softly. “I’m glad you’re awake,” he tells him, and relief floods his every word; for there had been too-frequent times in the night when he’d despaired of ever seeing him open his eyes again.

Enjolras frowns and lifts a hand to rub his reddened, puffy eyes. Tracks of tears and sweat on his cheeks catch the light. “What happened?” he murmurs, giving a little cough.

“You came home late,” Grantaire tells him, “and you had a terrible fever. You could barely stand.”

“I remember,” Enjolras says slowly. His forehead creases. “God, I feel awful.” He makes to stand, and almost immediately loses his balance and falls back into the chair. He winces. “Might I — have something to eat?”

“Of course.” Grantaire rushes to heat broth for both of them, for he too has not eaten all night; he pours two glasses of wine and brings it all to Enjolras in the parlour.

Enjolras sips the broth and the red wine hungrily, and a little colour comes back to his cheeks: it cheers Grantaire immensely. He fetches more blankets when Enjolras shivers; he stacks more wood on the fire and sits in the other chintz chair, watching intently for the slightest sign of anything amiss.

“You are sure you feel all right?” he asks anxiously for what seems like the hundredth time.

“Yes. Yes, Grantaire, I promise I am feeling much better,” Enjolras answers. He smiles, but his pretty lips are chapped and his face, although less pale than before, is still thin and wan. An occasional cough disrupts him, and his hand still flies to his chest as if to dull the pain. But Grantaire nods as if he believes him.

“If you say so.”

He pauses. There is a burning question he still wants to ask, but he feels now is not the time… _But if not now, when?_

“Enjolras,” he begins hesitantly, “last night…You were delirious, I know, but you said…There were names,” he blurts out, unable to skirt it any longer. “You kept repeating names. Men’s names, it sounded like.”

Enjolras frowns. “Do you remember any of them?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “No. Well — maybe. One with a _C —_ or two, perhaps — I couldn’t tell – long names, surnames maybe…Were they…clients’ names?” he forces himself to ask, knowing what to expect.

But Enjolras’ face changes, and a look of pain flashes across his eyes: not physical this time.

“No,” he says quietly. “No. If they are — the names I am thinking of, then they are not clients’ names at all.” He sighs.

“Might I ask —?”

“My friends,” Enjolras says. “All dead,” he adds bluntly.

Grantaire’s eyebrows shoot up. _“Dead?_ I am sorry — I had no idea, Enjolras, forgive me.”

“Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Maybe Marius, Jehan. Feuilly? Bahorel?” Enjolras lists off blindly. Grantaire nods slowly.

“Yes. Some of those, yes.”

Enjolras sighs again, deeper now. “Oh, God. I am — I had gotten so good at forgetting,” he says suddenly, and it sounds small and childish and sad.

“How?” asks Grantaire tentatively, hating himself for wanting to know.

“The barricades,” Enjolras says, and his pretty mouth twists bitterly. “In June. They thought —  _we_ thought we could change the world.” He laughs harshly. “Look where it got them. Look where it got _me_ , for God’s sake.”

“I am so sorry,” Grantaire says quietly, not knowing how else to react.

“I was lucky,” Enjolras continues. “I wasn’t even hurt. Ha! It was as if the bullets went right past me, didn’t even graze me — I was lucky. _Lucky!”_ He spits the word. “All my friends, dead. My family disowned me for joining the cause in the first place,” he adds suddenly. “And I couldn’t even _die_ for it _._ Lucky!”

“Is that why —?” Grantaire does not know how to ask. But Enjolras understands, and nods.

“What other option did I have? I had no money, I was cut off from my family. I was living with my friends; I had nowhere to go without them…” He shrugs. “I knew I was attractive. I knew I could make easy money with my looks, with…my body. So I did.”

Grantaire stares at him, trying to absorb this barrage of information, this awful awful life that Enjolras has lived.

“I am dying, you know,” Enjolras says. He does not sound upset.

In silence, Grantaire nods slowly.

“I know.”

“May I stay anyway?” Enjolras asks, and he sounds so like a boy that Grantaire’s heart aches.

“Oh, God, Enjolras — of course. Of course you may stay.” He shakes his head. “Did you really think —?”

Enjolras shrugs with practised indifference, but Grantaire can see the relief in his eyes.

“No, but it is always better to be sure.” He brushes a damp curl from his forehead. “Thank you. You may paint me again, later, tomorrow…” He frowns, yawning, looking so very very young. When his eyes open again they are glassy, his eyelids heavy.

“You will paint me and we will sell more paintings. Yes. But for now — I am feeling very tired again. Would it bother you if I went back to sleep?”

 _I love you,_ Grantaire thinks, and he feels like shouting it, feels he will burst with it. “No, not at all. Here — let me help you up, let’s take you into the bedroom, come on…”

“No, thank you.” Enjolras shakes his head. “I would prefer to stay out here, if you don’t mind. Closer to you,” he adds quietly.

“Oh. Oh. Of course.” Grantaire bites his lip. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

Enjolras smiles tiredly up at him. “Thank you.” He nestles deeper into the chair, tucks the blankets closer around himself; he looks at Grantaire and his eyes are suddenly, startlingly lucid and focused; and he says “Thank you for caring for me, Grantaire. I do not deserve such kindness.”

And then he closes his eyes. Grantaire looks down at him for a moment more and feels his heart break within his chest.

_I will lose him. I always knew I would. It is only a matter of time._

*  
Enjolras has good days, sometimes, and bad days, most times. On the bad days, he has neither the energy nor the strength even to get out of bed; Grantaire brings him food and drink and stays with him, drawing while he sleeps or else reading to him, novels and newspapers. Coughs rack Enjolras’ body for hours on end; blood stains his handkerchiefs and the sheets on Grantaire’s bed. More often than not he is feverish. When he drifts into sleep it is light and delirious, and he repeats his friends’ names over and over — but now he says Grantaire’s, too.

The good days, now, are few and far between — but still, they are good. On those days Enjolras has strength enough to get out of bed and come into the kitchen to eat (sitting wrapped in a blanket next to the fire, for he is still weak and terribly, terribly thin.) He’ll laugh and make jokes with Grantaire; keep up a lively stream of conversation that they both pretend isn’t forced and exhausting. Sometimes, even, he feels well enough to pose: “I must,” he insists. “Our buyers are counting on it.”

And so, wrapped in the old silk peignoir — Grantaire refuses point-blank to let him pose nude; the apartment is too cold and he is too sick — he will pose, and Grantaire will draw him and then promptly send him back to bed. Amid Enjolras’ protests he drags the easel into the bedroom so he can watch as the painting takes form on the canvas. He will paint each pose twice, usually, in different colours and styles, in order to have more to sell; for selling, these paintings are.

Word has gotten around thanks to Enjolras’ friend the baron; requests and offers are coming in faster than Grantaire can handle. He has sold all his early portraits of Enjolras (with the exception of _Apollo)_ for quite a decent profit, and even his rough sketches — of Enjolras, of Paris, of a woman crossing the street with three red feathers in her hat — have fetched a pretty sum. They are getting by.

And for a while, it seems as though Enjolras is getting better. Sometime in early February, he begins to gain weight; his coughing is less frequent, less painful, and his fevers begin to subside. He has energy, suddenly; he is often awake before Grantaire now, greeting him bright-eyed and smiling. He is able to pose nearly every day — even nude again, for he looks better now too, his ribs no longer as visible and his skin regaining a healthy tint. Neither of them says it, but they are not sure how long this period of grace will endure: any day could be the last. So Enjolras poses and Grantaire paints and paints and paints, and the paintings sell, and each day Enjolras feels a little bit better, and they can hardly believe their luck.

It is during this time that Enjolras brings up the idea of going back to his old clients. He has not been seeing them for weeks now, for nearly a month: when his illness began to worsen Grantaire forbade him from going to them; and even if he hadn’t, Enjolras had not the strength. But after supper one night, as they are drinking the last of their wine by the fire in a contented silence, he broaches the thought.

 “I am feeling better, Grantaire,” Enjolras begins abruptly. “I am getting well again, you know I am.” He pauses, smiling earnestly. “And I am looking better, too — I am looking like I used to.”

“Yes,” Grantaire agrees warily, setting down his glass. “You have been. You are. What is your point?”

“Well, I have been thinking,” Enjolras replies, “that I could perhaps start seeing some of my old clients again.” He waits, still smiling, his eyes questioning.

“ _No.”_ Grantaire’s voice is forceful, a hand slamming down on a table. “Absolutely not, Enjolras.”

“We need the money!” Enjolras’ rebuke is immediate, thought-out. “Admit it, Grantaire, the paintings are not enough.”

“The money from selling paintings is sufficient,” Grantaire retorts gruffly, but he — and Enjolras too — knows full well that this is not quite true. _One of us could live quite well with the money, but not two — and one so ill._

“It isn’t, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, softer now, pleading. “Please. Think about it. I could make more money if I went back to them — plenty of money, enough for us both, Grantaire, please —”

“It isn’t worth it,” Grantaire cuts him off.  He rises. “Not worth risking your health — your _life,_ Enjolras,” he says, holding up a hand when Enjolras opens his mouth to interrupt him. “Yes, Enjolras, it _is_ your life. You are still gravely ill, even if these last weeks have been good — and going back to your clients will not improve matters.”

“I am getting well again!” Enjolras cries out, standing too. “I _am!”_

“For now,” Grantaire cuts in. “Not forever. And I won’t allow you to take such a risk.”

“Why not?” Enjolras challenges him.

And this is so ridiculous, so absurd —  _does he not see, my God? —_ that Grantaire laughs aloud: a short, harsh, surprised bark of laughter that makes Enjolras’ eyebrows pinch together.

“What is it?” he demands, his face flushing. “What?”

“Because I _care for you,_ Enjolras!” Grantaire exclaims. “Because I want you to — to be healthy, to stay with me, to stay _alive!”_ He stares incredulously at Enjolras, unable to believe that he does not _know_ this already, _that it’s not written all over my face —_

“Why? Because I am such a good model? Because I am one of your ‘beautiful things’?” Enjolras fires back, insolent.

Grantaire stares at him. “My God,” he says softly, his heart throbbing in his ears. “No. No. Not because of that. No — because _I have fallen in love with you_ , you fool, you absolute fool —”

A sharp intake of breath from Enjolras — stunned —  _“What?”_

“I love you,” Grantaire repeats, and it feels as though the greatest weight has been lifted; he is Atlas, relieved of his burden at last. “I love you, Enjolras. I love you.” His hands are shaking.

“You cannot,” Enjolras breathes. “How? How can you —  _love_ me? You won’t even touch me, Grantaire — I have offered, my God, you _refused —”_

“Because you offered out of obligation!” Grantaire exclaims. “I _wanted_ to accept — oh, you have no idea how much I wanted to, Enjolras — but I did not want to take from you what you did not truly want to give!”

“I wanted you to say yes,” says Enjolras, his voice low and urgent. “I wanted you to — to take from me, to take anything, to do _anything —_ Please, Grantaire. You must believe me. I wanted you to.” He shakes his head, now: “No. I _want_ you to.” He looks at Grantaire, pleading, and it hits Grantaire like a physical shock: he believes him. Enjolras is telling the truth.

Enjolras steps out from behind the table, comes closer to him. There is a question in his eyes. Grantaire steps forward to meet him, and he takes him in his arms, and when their lips meet the question is answered: _Yes. Yes. Yes._

It is nothing like their first kiss: there is no calculation here, nothing deliberate. This is languorous and slow; this is new, this is real. Enjolras rests his forehead against Grantaire’s and tells him quietly, gently, “I love you,” and Grantaire knows beyond any shadow of a doubt that he means it.

And now the question is in Grantaire’s eyes, and Enjolras answers it with a nod. He takes his hand, leads him to the bedroom, and when at last they are stripped-down and entwined — their breathing matched, rough and shallow — Enjolras whispering Grantaire’s name against his skin — Grantaire knows, too, with a terrible foresight, that he will never be happier than this.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for the lovely feedback on this fic — I'm sort of ridiculously narcissistic about it and I am _so_ happy people are actually liking it! One-third left to go; see you next week. xoxo


	3. Chapter 3

*

The next morning Grantaire wakes bathed in sunlight, Enjolras’ sleeping form peaceful next to him. He gazes down at him a moment, in disbelief and wonderment; he brushes a kiss to his curls before climbing quietly out of bed.

He is in the kitchen cooking breakfast when Enjolras wakes. He pads out of the bedroom and greets him with a soft, shy smile, murmuring “Good morning”.

“Good morning, _chéri,”_ Grantaire returns, and Enjolras smiles wider and kisses him, and Grantaire marvels at how easy this is, how _right —_ it is as if things have always been this way.

And so — as they have done on dozens of mornings before; but not like _this,_ never like _this —_ they eat and Enjolras bathes and then Grantaire takes out his painting things. Enjolras sits, nude, on the window-seat, perfectly still, with his eyes on Grantaire (his blood is hot in his veins, he cannot hold his gaze.) Grantaire sketches him on the canvas; but before he can begin to paint, Enjolras beckons him over. “Come here,” he says softly, and Grantaire, giddy, powerless, does.

And then they are kissing, and Enjolras’ skin is marble-smooth but warm and human, and his fingers are nimble on the buttons of Grantaire’s shirt. Grantaire hums against Enjolras’ mouth, his chest, his hips; Enjolras smiles and twines his fingers through his hair.

The window is ajar. Grantaire’s name, tumbling from Enjolras’ lips like a prayer, is caught on the wind and drifts down to the city street below.  

*

After, they stay curled-up on the window-seat: limbs entwined, Enjolras’ head tucked in to Grantaire’s chest. Grantaire fetches a blanket and throws it over them, and they huddle even closer together; the air in the apartment is chilly but their skin is flushed and their hands are warm. Grantaire is utterly sated, content — but “There is work to do,” he murmurs finally, making to get up, dropping a distracted kiss on Enjolras’ curls. “Come, my love, let’s get up…”

“No,” Enjolras refuses point-blank, a smile playing on his lips.

Grantaire laughs, protests vaguely — “The painting” — but lets himself be pulled down again.

Enjolras kisses his mouth, whispers “It can wait.”

He lies down so his head rests on the satin pillow of the window-seat; Grantaire lies next to him, takes him in his arms. And even though it’s only the early afternoon — even though there’s work to be done — even though Enjolras might not be well enough to pose tomorrow — or perhaps _because_ of all this — they fall asleep like that, held tight and safe, breathing together with heartbeats synchronised.

Or rather — Grantaire falls asleep, Enjolras nestled next to him. Enjolras, however, feigns sleep with the skill of an expert (for he _is_ an expert, if such a thing exists, at falling into bed with unfamiliar men and leaving before they awake, forgetting their names before he’s even out the door.) He slows his breathing, stills his heart; and then, when Grantaire’s face is calm and his breaths are slow and even, Enjolras carefully disengages himself from their embrace.

He dresses quickly, in silence; pulls on his boots and leaves his coat behind; and then he slips out the door and is gone with barely a sound.

*

Grantaire awakes, alone, some hours later. At first he only registers that the sky outside is dark, and this itself fills him with a sense of dread that he cannot explain or begin to name — and then, seconds later, he realises that Enjolras is gone.

He is not concerned, at first: _he must be in the kitchen._ He looks up: no fire is lit in the stove, with no Enjolras at the table beside it, waiting for Grantaire to wake. He frowns, but does not grow worried yet: _the bedroom, then._ So he stands, wrapping himself in a blanket and shivering when his feet touch the cold wooden floor, and goes to the bedroom; calls over the threshold “Enjolras?”

No answer. He steps inside: the room is dark, the bed un-slept-in. There is no one there.

And now Grantaire’s heart starts beating faster. _Where is he?_ He tries to calm himself, comes up with a string of rational explanations: _He has gone to the bakery, to the market. Or for a walk, perhaps. Yes — that must be it — he tired of waiting for me to wake up and so went for a walk to clear his head._

But none of these ring true, and each theory, as he devises it, he dismisses as untrue. _No. No. None of these are right. That is not where he’s gone._ But that leaves the question —  _where is he?_

Grantaire knows the answer, has known it ever since he woke up alone. He knows it in the pit of his stomach, in the back of his mind, in the darkest part of his heart. He knows where Enjolras has gone, but he does not want to know; for if he admits that he knows it, then it will be true. _He promised he would not go to them,_ some part of him protests; but he corrects himself, remembering their argument, knowing for certain the bitter truth: _h_ _e promised no such thing at all._

Grantaire swallows, feeling sick. _I must find him. I must go to him and bring him home._

And so he does. He dresses, bundles up against the cold and then steps into the frigid night.

*

Three months. Three months since that first night that they met, Grantaire realises as he walks the dark streets of Saint-Denis. So much has changed in those weeks, and yet nothing at all; for here he is in the cold again, searching for an angel he is not sure he will ever find: except that this time he knows his face. Knows it, and loves it, and does not think he can bear to wake up one morning and not see it. _Not yet. Not today. Please, don’t let him be taken from me today._

“Enjolras!” His voice is caught on the chill March wind and promptly whisked away. _“Enjolras!”_

Street corner after street corner: the same faces each time, ragged and hungry and guarded. The same women — the same girls — and the young men too, the same as before; but none of them him. The minutes pass, hours, maybe, and the sky grows darker and the night grows colder and the rain begins to fall; and still he is gone. Grantaire feels he will go mad. _Where is he?_

He crosses the Rue Saint-Lazare to the Rue des Martyrs. He walks in a haze, a blindness, calling Enjolras’ name over and over; his lips are chapped, the wind and rain bite his face, and still he walks on. He does not know what else to do. There is nothing else he can do. In this dazed state he does not see the dark shape huddled on the cobbles in front of him until he nearly trips over it. “ _Merde!”_ he curses aloud, and looks down to see what it is — a person, he realises with a horrified shock, and then even as he bends closer he knows.

Grantaire falls to his knees at Enjolras’ side. “Oh, my God,” he whispers. “Please, God, no.”

For he has not stirred. Grantaire lifts Enjolras’ damp immobile form into his lap, feeling sick. He lifts one thin wrist and presses his fingers to a vein, feels the weak rhythm there: _a pulse. Thank God, a pulse._

“Enjolras?” Grantaire whispers, brushing limp curls back from his lover’s face with numb fingers.

And miraculously, Enjolras opens his eyes. He blinks groggily up at Grantaire, stirs feebly; a weak sound escapes his bloodied lips and it sounds like _Grantaire,_ and Grantaire nearly weeps. “Hush, my love,” he whispers, “hush, I am here — all will be well — oh, God, Enjolras —”

They stagger home, Grantaire supporting Enjolras’ weight. They have to stop frequently; Enjolras can barely stand. When they finally stumble into the apartment he is hardly breathing. Grantaire deposits him in a chintz chair, rushes to pile more wood on the fire, and wraps him in every blanket from their bed; he sits at Enjolras’ side and holds his hand and prays.

When Enjolras’ eyes flutter open again Grantaire smiles, his own eyes filling with tears. “Hello, Enjolras,” he whispers; and Enjolras’ chapped lips form his name.

“I am sorry,” Enjolras forces out, his voice weak and raw. “I am so sorry, Grantaire.”

“Don’t apologise,” Grantaire tells him, even though some deep part of him is screaming, is crying out that Enjolras has betrayed him, has broken his trust — but he does not let this show. “Tell me what happened.”

“I left,” Enjolras whispers. “When you were asleep. I went — I went out.”

“Where?” Grantaire asks, already knowing.

“Out.” Enjolras coughs, his face contorting in anguish. His hand comes away spattered with blood. “To the street. And I —”

He breaks off coughing again, but from the look in his eyes Grantaire knows what he is trying to say.

“You saw someone,” he says softly. “You met a client.”

Enjolras nods miserably. “Clients,” he corrects, his voice broken.

“Clients,” Grantaire repeats. He closes his eyes. “And what happened?” he asks, his voice shaking.

“The first — he was kind to me, he was gentle,” Enjolras says, barely louder than a whisper. “And the next as well.” He looks up at Grantaire and then quickly looks away, like a guilty child. “But the last —”

 He closes his eyes, shudders, and Grantaire wants to scream.

“He was rough with me. When he — had finished, he left me there, in the street. He called me names. He kicked me,” Enjolras says tonelessly. His eyes are blank, unblinking. “He beat me.” He lifts a hand to his ribs, applies gentle pressure there. He winces.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire whispers. He clutches Enjolras’ hand, presses it to his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras says, and his words are cut off in a sob. He turns his face from Grantaire, curling into himself, as if waiting for a blow. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“I love you,” Grantaire tells him, crying now too. “I love you.”

*

In the morning Grantaire helps Enjolras into the bedroom. When he gets into bed they both know he will not come out again.

Grantaire stays with him. He doesn’t draw, doesn’t finish any paintings; he just stays with Enjolras, holds his hand while he sleeps, listens to the sound of his breaths and wonders which one will be the last.

When he awakes Enjolras is even weaker than before. His skin is ashen, waxy-pale; his blue eyes are overlarge in his drawn, shadowed face. Grantaire drops a kiss on his dry lips and strokes his thumb along his jawline, hating the fact that he can feel the bone just beneath the skin. “Hello, my love.”

“Hello,” Enjolras returns softly. “You stayed with me.”

“I stayed,” Grantaire repeats. “And I will stay as long as you want me to.”

Enjolras smiles tiredly, closing his eyes. “Thank you.” He opens his eyes, gives a cough. “Talk to me, Grantaire,” he requests suddenly. “Please. About anything.”

“Anything?” Grantaire asks, taken aback. “Well —”

“Please,” Enjolras implores him.

“Tell me about your friends,” Grantaire says, impulsive.

Enjolras does not blink. “My friends.”

“Yes,” Grantaire says, gaining confidence. “I want to know about them. I want to know everything about you, my love. Tell me.”

 _Before it’s too late_ is the unspoken end of his sentence. They both know it. So Enjolras speaks.

“Joly,” he begins, “was going to be a doctor. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were going to be lawyers. Marius," he says, and his voice wavers, “was going to be married.” He closes his eyes, and Grantaire regrets having asked him; he recalls Enjolras’ words, _I had gotten so good at forgetting_ , and he hates having made him remember. He’s about to interrupt him, apologise and tell him to stop; but then Enjolras goes on.

“We met every week at the Café Musain,” he continues. He pauses to give another cough; discretely, he wipes the blood off his palm. “We were all students — well, except Feuilly — all the rest of us, though; fine young men with — with educations, with dreams. And we drank and talked and laughed — we planned to change the world…” He bites his lip. “We were so young. So full of ideals, of hope. And then…” He trails off, closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, and the words are hopelessly inadequate.

“It was my fault,” Enjolras says abruptly, opening his eyes. “My fault they died.”

“What do you mean?” Grantaire asks, stunned.

“I was their leader,” Enjolras says bitterly. “They trusted me; they counted on me. They _loved_ me. And they — they died. For me.” And now his face crumples, and there are tears streaking silently down his cheeks, and the sobs tearing from his throat are raw and heartbroken, heartbreaking.

Grantaire climbs into bed next to him, takes him in his arms, and Enjolras collapses onto him.

“Why was I left behind?” Enjolras chokes out. “Why couldn’t I have died with them?”

He buries his face in Grantaire’s shoulder and sobs.

*

He falls asleep, later, still held in Grantaire’s arms. Tears mix with blood on the sleeve of Grantaire’s shirt, for at some point the sobs turned into a coughing fit that lasted an age. Grantaire holds him as he sleeps, strokes his golden curls and tries to tell him without words how much he loves him.

When Enjolras wakes again they both know it will be for the last time.

“Are you feeling any better?” Grantaire asks him gently, and Enjolras nods and smiles weakly and he is lying.

His skin is flushed, his face hot. His eyes are glassy, and he can hardly keep them open; his lips are red with blood. He cannot speak. Grantaire holds him and the hours pass in silence.

*

The sun is beginning to sink in the sky as Enjolras’ breathing grows laboured.

“It won’t be long now,” Enjolras murmurs, delirious, fighting for breath. “Not long until I am with them again.”

“Stay with me,” Grantaire whispers, clutching him tighter as if to keep him here. “Stay.”

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras. “Grantaire.”

He fixes his gaze on Grantaire: those startling eyes, bright blue. There is a world in those eyes; there is a lifetime, all too short.

 Slowly they unfocus, grow dim, still fixed on Grantaire, and Enjolras’ body goes limp in his arms.

“No,” Grantaire whispers in shock, not wanting to believe it. “No. No. Enjolras. _Enjolras!”_

Frantic, he lays a hand on one pale cheek, but the blush of life has gone. The golden head lolls back, the rosy lips bloodied. _He has gone from me. He has gone to them._

Grantaire’s eyes fill with tears. Shaking, agonised, he closes the unseeing eyes, presses a last kiss to the cold pale forehead. “I love you,” he says aloud, and hopes absurdly that Enjolras can hear him, that he goes into death knowing it. “I love you.”

And he lowers his head onto the still chest where no heart beats warm and alive, and he sobs.

*

Enjolras is interred in the Cimetière de Montmartre two days later. It rains. The ground is hard and cold.

*

That night, Grantaire finishes the last painting: the nude they began the morning they made love for the last time. Grantaire paints with a steely determination, with tears in his eyes; the brushstrokes are harsh and angry and beautiful and sad. He paints as if he could paint Enjolras into life again, when with each stroke he feels he is further and further away from him. _This is all I have._

When the painting is finished, he burns it.

*

He arranges to sell all the other paintings, everything he has left. One by one they are sold, taken, until all that remains is _Apollo:_ he still cannot stand to let it go.

One gray cloudy day Grantaire is walking home from the baron’s house, having just sold the last of his sketches to him; his pockets are heavy with gold. He will buy wine now, and flowers for Enjolras; and he is turning down the road toward the market when he starts to cough.

It surprises him, the pain: a tear in his ribs, it feels like; a wracking of his heart. He coughs again, into his hand this time. It comes away spattered with blood.

A slow beatific smile spreads across Grantaire’s face, and he closes his eyes. Relief suffuses him. He understands, all at once, that he and Enjolras will be together again. Whether in a week, a month, a year — he will meet the same end as his lover.

_What say you, my love — will you permit it? Will you permit me to die for you, as you could not do for the ones who you loved?_

The sky opens up then. Cold rain pours down, and washes the blood from his hands.

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my most adored [birdling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdling) for her beautiful [illustration](http://abernathae.tumblr.com/post/144214999074/sophelie-a-sketch-for-abernathae-for-her), and thanks to you all for reading, commenting, leaving kudos and (hopefully) letting me make you sad! Writing this fic was a lovely experience and I'm so grateful to you all for sharing it with me.
> 
> Come say hi on my [main blog](http://abernathae.tumblr.com) or else my [strictly e/R blog](http://tothebarrigaydes.tumblr.com), if you'd like!
> 
> Thanks again, so much. ❤︎


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